


Breaking Dishes

by QueenyMidas



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Danarius (Dragon Age) Bashing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Injury Recovery, Love, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 13:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18717793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenyMidas/pseuds/QueenyMidas
Summary: Fenris and Hawke sort through the last of Danarius’ belongings after his death to see what they can sell at the market. A painful past flinches and makes way for a brighter future—together. Blatantly inspired by the Rihanna song.





	Breaking Dishes

**Author's Note:**

> Lord help me, I’m back on my bullshit. I’m supposed to be writing my novel (fantasy lesbians, I’m at 40k words). Whoops. Here are these two lovelies, a blue/purple bear mage Hawke and his grumpy elf soulmate. Trigger warning for bodily injury and (implied) sexual assault survivor Fenris, whose escape from his abuser has helped me so much in understanding my own trauma. I love these two.

              “Okay, think of it economically,” Hawke offered. “Some of the things you find in that rickety old place may be of value. Shitty old Tevinter mages must keep around loads of useless valuables.”

              “Ever the businessman,” Fenris snorted. Every few steps his plate gloves knocked into Hawke’s and the tips of Fenris’ fingers tingled. It wasn’t at all like holding hands, but what the hell did Fenris know about holding hands? The first time he’d tried it their fingers got all tangled up and pinched in the armor, but Hawke didn’t seem to mind. The irony was not lost on him that they’d had sex before getting around to such a simple romantic gesture.

              “Really, though. What’s something you want to buy right now?” Hawke pushed, smiling wide. He always smiled like that when he had one of his schemes. Hopefully this one wouldn’t pit them against another dragon.

              Fenris didn’t have to think too hard about that. “Wine.”

              “Then we’ll buy wine with the coin we make from selling whatever fancy ornamental garbage is in there.”

              “Just because you sell every scrap of refuse we come across to the beleaguered vendors of Lowtown doesn’t mean I have to,” Fenris replied but was already in on the plan anyway. Hawke could tell from the little quirk in the corner of his lips. “And it will your fault if there are any abominations or cursed artifacts.”

              Hawke laughed his signature laugh, loud and full and with his belly. “If there’s an abomination hiding up there I’ll eat my staff. Cursed and-or haunted artifacts on the other hand we are still selling.” Fenris shot him his signature glare. “Kidding!”

              “Kidding, he says,” Fenris grumbled, pulling a key from his satchel. He unlocked the front door to the manse he had grown so accustomed to squatting in that it almost felt like home. Almost. It never really could be.

              Danarius’ old Manor was the void where a choice in living situations should have been. Fenris felt frozen there, but where else could he go? Hawke would have him in a heartbeat, but that conjured forth hundreds of new fears. What if Hawke felt intruded upon? What if he got annoyed eventually by Fenris’ presence, or worse, bored? Beyond the many ways it could sour this tentative relationship they found themselves in there was also the fact that Fenris needed somewhere of his own to retreat to. The Manor wasn’t really ‘his’, but it was the perfect hiding place when he didn’t want to be found.

              There were some wounds he preferred to tend in private.

              Hawke followed closely behind him after they hung up their weapons, and noted the familiar smell of the manor. Drink, dust, blood, and more recently, sex. He removed his gloves and motioned for Fenris to give him his hands so he could remove his, too.

              “I can do that myself,” Fenris reminded him.

              “I know.” Hawke reminded him in turn.

              Fenris shook his head slightly but still put his hands out. First came the left glove, then the one with Hawke’s red favor tied around it.  Then Hawke could properly hold both of Fenris’ hands in his and kiss each one.

              “There are lots of things you can do yourself that you’ve enjoyed me doing for you, as I recall,” Hawke intoned, running a hand up Fenris’ arm beneath his spiky shoulder guards.

              Fenris laughed a laugh that sounded dangerously close to what could be described as a giggle. Red on the tips of his ears, he turned away and started up the stairs while Hawke followed close behind. “The remaining storage and boxes are in the attic,” he said. Fenris had only gone up there once to see if there was any nourishment and when there wasn’t abandoned it entirely.

              When Fenris reached the hatch on the ceiling that led up he remembered he was just short of being able to grab the string. With a frustrated grunt Fenris rose to the tips of his toes, swiping at the twine like a cat to a toy.

              “I’ll get that,” Hawke offered. He reached up and closed his large fist around the string easily and pulled down to let the ladder descend.

              Fenris had to grit his teeth to keep from insisting he could have done that on his own. Fenris didn’t want to put the burden of his own resistance to assistance on Hawke. The mage was just trying to help. It was hardly personal—all he’d ever been doing was trying to help. Help Fenris, help Aveline, help Isabela, help the blood mage and the abomination, help Varric, help random citizens, help Kirkwall. Considering how often that backfired on the poor man Fenris would let it be as best he could.

              Hawke was kind. He didn’t help because he thought Fenris incapable—Hawke helped because that was what he did. Fenris told himself this over and over with hopes it would stick someday.

              Fenris went up the ladder first to peek around. “I need a light,” Fenris said into the dark and reached his hand down to Hawke expecting a candle.

              Instead Hawke pressed his hands together and pulled them apart to reveal an orb of swirling white light. It drifted up past Fenris and hovered in the center of the attic, pulsing softly. Fenris’ hands gripped the ladder a little tighter on his way up, and resigned himself to a spot by the wall once he was up there. Hawke was just trying to help. Just trying to help.

              The mage’s head popped up next from below, far less apprehensive than Fenris had been. Once Hawke could get a good look at the crates and sacks laying around he could formulate a plan. “Alright, let’s start on the East side. We’ll get that shelving unit last.”

              A horrible, sinking feeling came over Fenris’ body, like there were weights on his hands and feet dragging him down past his normal slouch. _Fear_. Hatred and shame, too, all balled up in Fenris’ chest and weighing his limbs down like familiar shackles. The warm feeling of Danarius’ blood oozing from his heart onto Fenris’ gauntlets—his gauntlets, his sword. Why had he taken his armor off? He was exposed in this place lit with magic.

              Hawke grunted as he pried open a crate. Fenris nearly jumped out of his skin, having in his quiet panic forgotten where he really was and who he was with. _Really_ with.

              “Lots of books,” Hawke narrated his search, oblivious to Fenris’ episode. That was half of his charm, really. “Mostly histories, some on spells.”

              “Keep the histories and fiction, burn anything with blood magic, sell the rest,” Fenris decided. Having control over these affects was comforting in a sick way, and it would make sure none of Danarius’ maddened old writing circulated. He decided to grab the reigns for further security.

              “Aye aye, Captain,” Hawke replied. He hung out with Isabela too much.

              Fenris headed to a wardrobe and pried the doors apart by their carved handles. Elegant robes of every color saw the first light they had in years, some colors carrying worse memories than others. Fenris reached forward and felt the silk to remind himself it was just clothing, the man who’d worn it long departed.

              Killing Danarius didn’t give him the peace he wanted, but every day he felt like it might be closer. It was almost serene being with Hawke, a living magnet for nonsense and chaos of all sorts. He always had some beast to slay or some orphaned elf to save, and Fenris stood by him through all of it, sword at the ready.

              It had always been this way with Hawke. Fenris felt so drawn to him always, and wished for so long to be at his side while saying nothing. It scared him. He had been Danarius’ sword, so how would being Hawke’s be any different? Hawke proved that in time, proved that in front of Danarius—‘Fenris belongs to no one’.

              Hearing that from the man he admired had made Fenris’ own heart double in size. He was his own man when he was with Hawke, and would never be controlled or ordered around again.

              “Hmm, no blood magic here… Lots of kitchen magic, though. Mind if I snatch this one, dear?” Hawke reported in.

              “Go ahead. But these,” Fenris said, knocking the row of racks to assure nothing else was tucked in there. “We will sell.” Seeing anyone he knew in them would be too much, especially Hawke.

              Hawke didn’t argue. The next crate he pried open revealed a massive vase with floral art across its surface. He whistled. “This beauty could sell high.”

              “I have no use for such a thing, so we might as well,” Fenris permitted as he kneeled, moving on to a battered chest. “Coin,” Fenris marveled as he saw the mass of gems and glittering gold. He laughed, hand over his mouth. “I really am such a fool for never having come up here.”

              Hawke came up behind Fenris, crouching down with him. “You needed time,” Hawke said, understanding. Always understanding, never pushing, and that attitude pulling Fenris in deeper, making him more comfortable to share once he was ready. He put his hand gingerly on Fenris’ shoulder. “Also, Maker’s arsehole, that’s a motherlode.”

              “We can count it later,” Fenris said as he shut the lid, standing and motioning for Hawke to do the same.

Fenris next reached for the boxes on top of the shelves, fingertips coming just short. He sighed and moved aside for Hawke to take up the task with thankfully no teasing.

              It was high even for Hawke, his broad arms strained upwards to where he could grasp the top box by its unsecure corners. Hawke made a little grunt as he lifted it, the box tipping and a flash of light slipping out and crashing onto the floor.

              The brilliant champagne glass shattered on impact, shards rattling in the aftermath.

              “Ah, I’m sorry,” Hawke said quickly, trying to shift the box back up.

              Fenris’ hand stopped him. “Don’t be.” With the other he helped pull the box down even more. Two more glasses spilled out and exploded on the wooden floor.

              Hawke raised a brow, searching for Fenris’ eyes beneath the cover of his hair. Was he in trouble? “Oops…?” He was blushing, such a fair pink color on his cheeks as he put the box on the ground, several slots now empty.

              “How clumsy of me,” Fenris drawled, looking down to the box’s contents in Hawke’s large arms and trying to pretend he was calm. Seeing these glasses was enough to make his heart beat faster. A bead of sweat dripped down the back of his neck, and Fenris felt as if he would be sick. How many times had he poured wine for that disgusting man? How many times had he served him his daily meals, stood by him as he ate like a King, and never thought to poison him, not even once? Shame bubbled up again, his neck now burning as more sweat formed.

              This time Hawke did notice something was different with Fenris. He paused, unsure of how to proceed but hoping Fenris might reveal a way Hawke could help him. Fenris deserved his help most of all.

Carefully, Fenris picked out a big wine glass and held it to the magical light Hawke had illuminated the room with. It reflected light onto the walls, the old Manor shifting quietly as it always did. After a long moment of silence, he tossed it over his shoulder and twisted to watch it shatter.

              “Yes, well,” Hawke nodded, the nodding getting faster as he tried to get a grip on what was happening. “That was very clumsy of you.” Hawke got a better grip on the box, still holding it up in case Fenris wanted to take more. “What would be really clumsy is if I dropped it all now. It would probably just turn to shards.”

              Fenris’ grip flew to Hawke’s arm, their eyes meeting and hearts burning as one.

              Hawke dropped the crate and it hit the ground with a loud _thunk_ , bouncing only slightly but just enough back up against the glass contents to send them flying up again for an additional drop. The shattering happened in stages, and the box and floor around them was a wreck.

              For a moment there was awed silence between the couple. “More,” Fenris urged. “Get another box.”

              Garrett Hawke did as he was told, reaching up for the next box of glasses and holding it out so Fenris could peruse it. There were more cylindrical glasses in this one, and that meant it could fit about twice as many.

              “Put it on top of the other one—gently,” Fenris asked of him and Hawke did just that. When Fenris grabbed his next glass his grip was rougher, more reckless. He wound his arm back and sent the glass flying at the wall where it made contact and shattered with a satisfying sound. “You next.”

              “Well, okay,” Hawke shrugged because he really didn’t need an excuse to do something inadvisable like this. Truth be told he always did enjoy making a good, proper mess.

              Hawke took up a glass and chucked it. It smashed against the wall where Fenris’ had in a hail of shards. Fenris barked a laugh, growing more amused by the second. “And another. Keep doing that.” He reached both hands down to double-fist some ancient-looking pitchers that were at the base of the chest he’d been inspecting. With a battle cry Fenris loosed both at once to the floor directly below him, watching with great satisfaction to see them crack and scatter their pieces.

              Meanwhile Hawke was busying himself taking out the cylindrical glasses one by one and hurling them at the wall. “You know,” he said, the sound of glass shattering all around them. “I used to play a game back in Ferelden.” _Smash._ “With Carver and the other boys.” _Smash._ “One of us would get a pig’s bladder from the butcher.” _Smash._ “And one of us would get the biggest stick we could find, flat on the edge if we could.” _Smash._ “And then we’d throw the bladder at the person holding the stick and they’d have to try and hit it.” _Smash._ “Goal was to see how far we could hit it.” _Smash._

              Fenris hummed. “I like where this is going.” He scanned the room for furniture. The chairs stacked on the other wall would do, and they didn’t have glass shards lining the floor on the way there. Fenris walked up, grabbed a chair, and smashed it on the ground as well. A leg broke off in his hand. “Would this be a proper stick size?”

              “Oh, you know I like your stick size,” Hawke flirted and wiggled those big bushy eyebrows of his. Fenris rolled his eyes. “Hey, wait, being serious for a moment—should we really be doing this if you’re barefoot? I mean, you’re always barefoot, but now it seems especially relevant.” Hawke knew from giving foot rubs that the bottoms of Fenris’ feet were leathery because of the practice, like built-in sandals. Cobblestone didn’t give him any trouble, but Hawke would prefer not having to pry shards out of his lover this evening.

              “I thought,” Fenris countered as he gave a few test swings of the chair leg. Was that the right arc? “That I had a mage here to help me. Can’t you use magic to clean it up?”

              A belly laugh shook Hawke’s frame. “Oh, first he doesn’t want anything to do with magic, but now I’m his arcane cleanup crew?” Hawke shook his head fondly but waved his hand anyway. The shards of glass rose in the air and filled the empty holes in the box where they’d come from neatly, leaving nothing to jab Fenris’ precious feet.

              The corners of Fenris’ full lips tugged upwards. “Are we going to play this Ferelden game or what?”

              With a fond shake of his head, Hawke supposed it was time to start. “Sure, let’s. I’ll try and give you some easy ones to start out with.” It would hardly be romantic to just start pegging the object of his affections with drinkware, so Hawke wanted to pitch in a way Fenris could effortlessly bat it.

              Hawke sent a teacup flying in an underhanded toss right at the table leg, and Fenris’ body sparked to life. A loud shatter echoed in the room when wood connected with porcelain, this making a different and fuller noise than the glass.

              “Yeah! Nice one!” Hawke beamed. “Ready for more?”

              “Very,” Fenris replied and widened his stance slightly, wiggling his batting stick tauntingly.

              Hawke threw another teacup, and another, and both fell to Fenris’ bat. It made sense that he was so good at this when he swung a two-handed sword for most of his days. “Fastball!” Hawke warned before throwing a saucer at Fenris’ center to see how he would react.

              Fenris readjusted, planted his feet, and brought the chair leg forward to smash the saucer to smithereens. “Excellent,” he said, eyes glinting with delight at their mischief. Hawke was a sucker for seeing Fenris happy, so he kept the dishes coming. Plates, bowls, mugs—all were unmade by Fenris’ mighty swings. Hawke regularly used his levitation spell to move the shards out of the way, thinking this eliminated all risk in this activity.

              “Maker, you’re good at this,” Hawke exclaimed, picking up the last of what looked like a high-end set of family china. “Incoming!”

              The chair leg swung again, shattering the plate with a triumphant crack.

              “Hm,” Fenris said, immediately feelin something was wrong.

              Hawke looked up from where he’d been searching for more tableware. “Hm?” His eyes widened. “Holy Andraste’s ass!”

              A sizable shard of that fancy china had gone right into the top of Fenris’ foot, red leaking out around it. Fenris felt woozy but stood his ground, still gripping the chair leg as if Hawke was going to throw another ‘fastball’.

              After the initial shock, Hawke swept the rest of the shards aside with magic and bounded right over. “Oh, fuck, oh, shit, I’m sorry—” He dropped to his knees, inspecting the wound and determining it was pretty damn deep. “I’m so sorry Fenris, I—”

              “Not your fault. I was the fool who insisted we play with broken glass,” Fenris replied hoarsely. “Um, could you get me a, a—?”

              “A chair!” Hawke finished for him, rushing to grab an unbroken one and position it behind Fenris so he could lower him down onto it. Resuming his position on his knees—and he couldn’t even make an innuendo he was so worried—Hawke reached for the wound out of instinct to heal it and stopped. “Fenris, I need to use magic.”

              Fenris frowned, having known this would be necessary from the first moment he saw the shard. “Yes, well.” He paled not at the pain but at the knowledge magic was about to be enacted upon him. It was the magic of a man he trusted, a man he knew to be good of heart, but still his breathing grew shallow. “Do what you must, you have my permission as you have recently in battle.”

              Hawke’s frown mirrored his lover’s. Battle was different. When it was life or death and Fenris was glowing like a Lyrium nightlight he was so focused on the fight that Hawke could get away with subtle healing spells. Anders and Merrill had not earned that trust from Fenris yet and were strictly forbidden from healing him, so both had given up and let Hawke monitor the swordsman whenever they were out as a group.

              Outside of the clash of axes and offensive spells, though, Hawke knew how Fenris recoiled at magic. Carefully he took Fenris’ injured foot in his hands. “Look at me,” he instructed gently. “Look me in the eye, Fenris. No need to look down. I’m going to take care of you; I’m going to help you.”

              Shaky already, Fenris nodded. All Hawke ever wanted to do was care for him, help him, look after him. His pointed ears were red again but not from flirtation but deep embarrassment. Embarrassed he was still afraid of magic, embarrassed he’d gotten hurt, embarrassed for existing in a physical form, embarrassed for being embarrassed. He locked eyes with Hawke and gripped the seat of the chair.

              “I’m right here, love,” Hawke murmured, the cool and tingling sensation of healing forming in his hands first before pressing them to the wound. Fenris flinched, fear flashing in his eyes, and Hawke’s heart ached for him. “That’s it, you’re doing well, that’s it. We’re almost done.”

              Fenris’ lower lip quivered when he wished it wouldn’t.

              “Take a deep breath,” Hawke instructed, covering Fenris’ line of sight to his foot with his body so he could remove the shard. Blood gushed, and Hawke pressed his hand over the wound immediately. Still Fenris shook, and to feel magic so strong against his open wound made him whimper.

              “Hawke,” he whispered, panicked.

              “You’re doing great, Fenris.” Hawke focused on the mending, on sewing the skin back together as quickly as he could. He hated to see Fenris so disempowered. Why had he ever suggested that stick and bladder game? “Alright.” Hawke peeked under his hand and let out a sigh of relief. “There you go. All healed up. I’m so sorry, Fenris.”

              The tension that Fenris had been holding in his body went slack, his foot still tingling but no longer in pain. “Thank you,” Fenris recovered. “Really, there is no need to be sorry.” Gingerly he lifted his foot up to inspect it, the blood wiping away to reveal what looked like perfectly healthy an unmarred flesh. Hawke really was the most powerful mage he’d ever known. Fenris let out another sigh of relief, slumping further in the chair. “That was stupid of me.”

              “No, hey, it wasn’t stupid.”

              “Can we agree right now and forever that we’re not the best judges of that? If we told Aveline we started throwing dishes against the walls like we did, what would she say?” Fenris insisted, but still let out a little laugh at the end. Everything was fine, everything was going to be okay. “I don’t know what came over me.”

              “They’re your dishes,” Hawke reminded him gently and placed a hand on Fenris’ knee. “Break them if you want to.”

              Fenris drew in a long, deep breath of air. “Hawke… Thank you. Not just for the healing, but for… letting me break my own dishes.”

              At this Hawke cracked a big smile, quite relieved himself that this ordeal was over. “Any time, Fenris. Just… maybe with boots on next time.” They both laughed. “Hey, what do you say we take a break from this. I don’t think any of this old junk is going anywhere, and I think it’d be good for you to lay down.”

              “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Fenris asked dryly.

              “I really mean just lay down,” Hawke snickered. “But with my track record I understand your hesitation. Hey, when we get down the ladder again, I’ll carry you to bed, alright? And we don’t ever have to do anything but just lay there together. Getting to do that, to be with you, that is and will always be more than enough for me. Okay?”

              “Okay,” Fenris nodded, a rare smile gracing his lips. Hawke drank it in with the deepest reverence, and offered his hand to help him up. Fenris accepted with a kiss.


End file.
